


One of the Rotten Ones

by lolo313



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU: Orphans, Art, Birthdays, Bottom Sam, Handcuffs, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Rough Sex, Spanking, Top Dean, Wincest Reverse Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 04:42:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: Throughout the years, through group homes and run-ins with the law, Sam and Dean have always had each other. With the other by their side, somehow they always make it through, even if their methods aren't always legal.A collection of Sam's birthdays, Dean's fierce protectiveness, and Sam's growing, undeniable love for his brother.





	One of the Rotten Ones

**Author's Note:**

> So many people to thank. 
> 
> First and foremost, my undying gratitude and endless awe to [sketchydean](http://sketchydean.tumblr.com/), who created just the most amazing art that inspired this story. This wouldn't exist without you--my deepest gratitude. It was a joy and a pleasure to work with you. Here's to doing it again soon!
> 
> To my beta, Emily, for a careful eye and extra attention. Betas unsung heroes of fandom. Thank you for your tireless effort and patience.
> 
> Finally, to the mods for running this fest, my heartfelt thanks. Without people like you, the world would be a dimmer, Wincest-less place. Thank you for organizing these events that allow writers like me to spread my creative wings and soar. It was a joy and an honor to participate, and look forward to doing so again in the future.

            On Sam’s eighth birthday, he got a black eye.

Heat rolled off the asphalt in waves, the air shimmery, like a gas leak. Sweat trickled into his eyes; he wiped at his face, bushing his hair back. The nuns wanted to cut it, but he wouldn’t let them. Dean liked it long.

            He pushed his fire engine around in circles, lips pursed in an imitation wail. He’d nearly cried when he’d unwrapped it, throwing his arms round Dean’s waist and squeezing the breath out of him.

            “Woah there, don’t bruise the produce, Sammy.” Dean had ruffled his hair and beamed, sending him off to play. Sam had no idea where Dean had gotten the money for such extravagance. But then again, Sam didn’t really think Dean had paid for it.

            Life in the home was hard, the luxuries few and far in between. They wanted for much, and more often than not went without. Sam hadn’t said anything when he’d spied the shiny, red engine in the toyshop window, had shared his secret yearning with no one, not even Dean. It was easier this way, to want in secret. To shoulder the burden silently, to bury it deep. Sam watched the squint of Dean’s eye, the curl of his lips, as he perused the selection of bobbles and light-up entertainments. Watched his fingers, spread out against the glass, and counted the scars on his knuckles from too many fights. Draped his eyes over the square set of his shoulders, the curve of his neck.

Sam knew a thing or two about wanting.

            Still, Dean had known, because of course he did, at least about the firetruck. “Anything for my Sammy,” he’d said when he’d pulled the newspaper-wrapped box from behind his back. And Sam had hugged him, had tried to press all his gratitude and longing that swelled in his chest and threatened to burst forth from his ribs into the embrace, Dean’s hand tangled in his hair, fingers strong against his neck.

            Even against the glare of the sun, Sam marveled at how the lights lit up as the plastic wheels crunched over pebbles and broken twigs. His knees burned, even through the fabric of his shorts, but he was too enthralled, too overcome with the joy of being eight—“ _almost a man grown_ ”—to care, drunk on his brother’s generosity, his love.

            A shadow fell over him, the red headlights suddenly bright and ominous, like a wolf’s eye in the flash of passing cars. Three boys circled him, a good head and half taller than him. From where he knelt, Sam gazed at their navels through moth-nibbled holes, aware of the ratty dishevelment of their charity clothes. His fingers tightened on the truck.

            “Whatcha got there?” Seamus, a sandy-haired youth with a gap between his front teeth, asked. “That didn’t come from the donation bin.”

            “It was a present.” Sam hugged the engine against his chest, wrapping his arms around it, a mother cradling her babe. “Today’s my birthday.”

            “No one gets birthdays here.” Sam looked at Travis, and while his back was turned Charles pushed him. He skidded onto his stomach, the toy engine flying out of his grasp. Seamus picked it up as Sam scrambled to his feet.

            “Give it back!” Sam felt tears welling up in the corner of his eyes, throat gone tight. He reminded himself that he was eight now, that he shouldn’t cry, that Dean wouldn’t cry, but his chest ached with sobs. “Seamus, give it back!”

            “Or what?” Seamus, Travis, and Charles advanced. Every step forward sent Sam inching back. He hit a wall. They pressed in with hyena laughs.

            Seamus only hit him once, hard, the brunt of his knuckle connecting with the tender swell of his cheek just below his right eye. Sam’s head smacked against the bricks and he crumpled, curling up tight in a ball on the ground. His body rocked on the waves of his sobs. He heard the boys sniggering; they hurled the worst words they knew— _faggot, bitch, cunt_. Their cruelty sliced the curve of his spine. In the shadows of his arms, Sam gave himself to desperation, snot dribbling onto his sleeve, his despair thunderous in the cavern of his cowardice.

            At length the boys’ laughter faded as they wandered off to find their next victim. Sam’s entire body ached as he unfurled, wiping at his bloodshot eyes. He winced as his wrist brushed against the tender, black egg ballooning beneath his eye. The world thinned to a strip of light as the darkness swelled from within, eye swollen nearly shut. He brushed the dirt from his knees and made his way on shaky legs to the group home.

            On his best days the other boys tended to avoid him, their paths diverting into wide circles to steer clear of whatever radioactive blast zone Sam seemed to inhabit. But today, one eye half-swollen shut, snot-nosed and tear-stained, his clothes grimy from the ground, the other children did not avoid Sam so much as pretend he did not exist. They looked right through him. He was made of glass—transparent, a single stone away from shattering.

            He found Dean sitting on his bed in the room they shared with ten other boys. By whatever grace existed in the world, he was alone. He looked up when the floorboards creaked under Sam’s step. His eyes went wide, round as hardboiled eggs. In an instant he was on him.

            “Sam? Sammy, who, who did this to you?” Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulders, fingers biting bone. He ducked his head to catch Sam’s eye, lifted his chin to make his brother look at him. “Sammy, what happened?”

            “They t-took my t-truck.” He choked on a sob over the final word and collapsed into a blubbering mess, crying harder than he had before. Dean wrapped his arms around his baby brother’s back, pulling him onto his lap. He cradled Sam in his arms, petting his hair while he hushed him, the gentle wind of his words blowing soft against the shell of his ear. He rocked him as best he could, and Sam knew he was being a baby, that he shouldn’t let Dean mother him like this, but he curled up against the warmth of his brother’s chest, let himself be comforted by the press of his arms, breathing deep the heady musk of his hair. Through chocking sobs and intermittent swipes of his sleeve along the underside of his nose, Sam divulged the story of what happened. He felt Dean’s body tremble with barely suppressed rage. His fingers tightened in Sam’s hair.

            Dean rubbed at his back in soothing circles, and at length Sam’s sobs turned into hiccups and gradually faded away. He felt drained, head pounding. The soreness under his eye had spread to half his face. He poked at the tender mound before Dean snatched his hand away. Sam relished his brother’s fingers wrapped around his own.

            “Don’t touch it. Bet it hurts like a bitch.” Sam nodded, remembering the words the boys had shouted. His face crumbled into tears once more. Dean hurried to hug him close, a hand pressed to the top of his head. “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, we’ll get you to the nurse, put a little ice on it—”

            “I should have stopped them.” Sam’s lips ghosted against the curve of Dean’s throat, voice barely a whisper. “I should have fought back.”

            “What, and got the crap beat out of you? Don’t be stupid.”

            “But they took my truck.” The loss stung, more so because it was Dean who’d given it to him, a symbol of his affection. “I’m sorry. I should—”

            “Don’t. Don’t apologize.” Dean held his chin between thumb and forefinger, forced Sam to look into the green of his eyes. “I’ll fix it. I promise.”

            Sam nodded, returning Dean’s smile weakly. He allowed himself to be lifted; Dean deposited him in bed. He tucked the sheets up and over Sam’s body. His head sunk into the pillow. Everything smelled like Dean, and Sam curled up against the comforting presence. Dean ran a hand through his hair and bent down to plant a kiss on his forehead. He felt tired down to his bones and no amount of effort could keep his eyes open as Dean strode from the room, hand reaching out to snatch up a baseball bat on his way out.

            Of course Dean got his truck back. He tossed it on the bed as Sam sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Even with a split lip and a gash gently weeping on his forehead, Sam had never seen something more beautiful than his brother smiling down at him.

            “Sorry, it got a little dinged up.” Sam looked at the truck, scuffed on the side, one tire slightly askew. He clutched it to his chest; it was perfect.

            Sam didn’t let go of it for the rest of the day, not even as the nurse dabbed disinfectant at his black eye. Dean sat beside him. She clutched her tongue.

            “You, you’re one of the rotten ones.” She turned her back to grab a cotton ball and Dean stuck his tongue out at her. Sam giggled. “Believe you me, y’all ain’t gunna grow up to be nothin’ but trouble.”

            “Yes, ma’am,” Dean said, throwing an arm around Sam’s shoulders and pulling him in close, “I believe you’re right.”

 

            On Sam’s twelfth birthday, he got adopted.

            He’d been sitting on the bed, leafing through a faded comic book Dean had nicked ages ago from a corner shop when one of the Sisters came in. They always looked so out of place, their black robes pristine against the grime of the boy’s dormitory, like a black and white photo pasted in a glossy color magazine. She stepped carefully over crumpled clothes and balled up socks, her face wrinkled up like she’d eaten a sour gummy. She hovered at the foot of Sam’s bed, touching nothing, afraid of what she might catch.

            “Sam Winchester?” Sam looked up into round, soft eyes. Sam had seen her once before; she was new, and most likely had been warned to keep her distance. Sam sat up and brushed the hair out of his face. “Will you come with me please?”

            “Why?” Sam made no move to get up. He blinked up at her, finger still holding his place in the comic book. “Am I in trouble?” He ran through Dean and his most recent antics, but nothing worthy of a private audience came to mind. They were smart about covering their tracks.

            “No, not at all. You have a visitor.”

            At first Sam thought she’d slipped into Latin or some other foreign language. The word sounded strange in context to himself. He’d never had a visitor before, at least not for him personally. People came to the home all the time—priests, social workers, politicians and their entourage of bulb-snapping photographers. And families, men and women without children of their own. They’d sit with them in the cafeteria or read to them in their rooms. Sometimes a kid would leave with them.

            Dean avoided the prospective parents, and because of this Sam did too. But sometimes he’d get cornered, trapped by an aging smile and unfamiliar kindness, like six months ago, when a couple in their fifties spent the afternoon with Sam, even taking him to the nearby park for a walk. The woman, Cheryl, had even held his hand when they’d crossed the street, and her husband, Gerard, gave him a caramel when they left. He told Dean none of this; he’d been in town hustling pool in order to buy them some new shoes and missed the whole thing.

            “Who is it?” Despite himself Sam pictured Cheryl and Gerard, the lines around their smiles and the brightness in their eyes.

            “A very nice couple that would like to speak with you.” Her eyes ran over him from head to toe. “Perhaps you should get changed first. And comb your hair.”

            The Sister waited in the hall while Sam dressed and wrangled his hair into a semblance of neatness. His stomach felt funny, nauseous even though he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He wondered where Dean was, if these people wanted to speak to him too. He had not seen him in hours, stopping by to ruffle his hair before he left to _run an errand or two_. His hand ached to be held, and he almost reached out for the nun’s, dangling by her side as they marched through the hallways and down the stairs, but decided against it.

            The Mother Superior’s office, situated on the ground floor, opened to reveal a cramped room with a couch and two, stiff-backed chairs. A man and a woman in their late thirties sat on the couch, each holding a cup of coffee, with the Mother Superior seated across from them, her spine straight as the book’s that lined the walls. All three stood when Sam walked in.

            The attention made him uneasy, and when he looked up to the Sister for reassurance he found she’d left, the soft click of the doors the only trace she’d been there. The Mother Superior gestured to the chair beside her..

            “This is Sam Winchester,” she said, talking to the man and woman. Their eyes poured over him, making his skin crawl. He squirmed in his seat, till the Mother Superior shot him a warning. “Sam, this is Mr. and Mrs. CarMcSon. They’re going to take you home with them.”

            “What?” Sam blinked, looking from the Mother to the couple. The woman took Sam’s hand.

            “We’ve wanted kids ever since we got married. We had a daughter, Elizabeth, but she…”

            “Sometimes, things just don’t work out.” Mr. CarMcSon smiled at his wife. “So we decided, so many kids out there need a home, why not adopt?”

            “And we’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.” Mrs. CarMcSon smiled wide, and Sam noticed a lipstick stain on her teeth. “We think you’ll be real happy with us.”

            Sam reeled. He and Dean had been in and out of group homes ever since the fire. Sam had never known anything else, but sometimes, when they were huddled under one blanket in the quiet of the night, a flashlight held between them, and the whole world fell away until it was just them, just the two of them, alone together, Dean would talk about their parents, about the home they’d had in Kansas. His voice would go real soft, and Sam would have to lean in close to hear him, and he wouldn’t be able to tell whose heartbeat he was listening to. It’s not that Sam wished for that life; he didn’t know it well enough to want it. But for Dean’s sake, sometimes he dreamed what it’d be like, to call a place their own, to be loved in the way they were supposed to be.

            “What about my brother?” Sam looked between Mr. and Mrs. CarMcSon’s tight, concerned faces.

            “Dean will be staying here. The CarMcSon’s only have room for one. Besides, you both would benefit from a little…distance.” The Mother Superior folded her hands in her lap and gave a knowing look. The hard line of her mouth brooked no argument.

            Sam broke out in a sweat, heart racing. They couldn’t actually expect him to leave Dean, could they? Did Dean even know he was going? Where was he right now? What would they tell him when he came back and Sam was gone?

            He stood abruptly, swaying on his feet when the blood rushed to his head. Mrs. CarMcSon reached for his hand, but he was already at the door. Before he could grab the handle it flew open, the Sister from before standing in his path, a hastily packed suitcase in her hand. He recognized one of his own shirts sticking out of the lid. She handed it to Mrs. CarMcSon, who appeared behind Sam. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Mr. CarMcSon smiling down at him.

            “You like baseball, Sammy? Maybe we can toss the ball around a little once we get to the house.”

            Together they steered him out the door and down the steps of the home. They’d parked across the street. Mrs. CarMcSon held the door of their lime green sedan open for him. Sam walked as if in a daze, eyes starring unfocused ahead of him, feet marching mechanically, the condemned’s walk to the gallows. As Mr. CarMcSon revved the engine, Sam turned to watch the home recede into the background. He watched it till they turned a corner and it disappeared from view.

            The CarMcSons lived in a brownstone downtown. The neighborhood wasn’t what Sam would call savory, but the block teemed with families. He saw kids playing in the street, moms walking from the grocer with arms full of bags. They passed a park full of dogs and dads playing with their kids.

            It looked awful.

            Mr. CarMcSon offered to carry Sam’s bag up to his room—he’d never had a room before, not one of his very own, not one he didn’t have to share with at least ten other boys—but he clutched it to his chest like a lifeline. Mrs. CarMcSon led him up the stairs, opened the door to the Carolina blue walls, the tiny desk beneath the window, the twin bed all his own.

            “Why don’t we let you get settled in? I’ll get dinner started in a few hours.”

            She shut the door. Sam was alone. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he wandered into the room—he refused to call it _his_. A strange energy filled the space and he felt queasy. He sat down on the edge of the bed, hugging his bag close. He promised he wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t, he—

            Unbidden tears rolled wet and fat down his cheeks, his shoulders bobbing with the force of his grief. _Dean_ , he thought, he’d never see Dean again. His big brother would think he’d abandoned him, that Sam had jumped at the first chance to get out, the first shot at a real home, without a second thought. That he didn’t even bother to say goodbye, that he left without a backwards glance. Dean would spend the rest of his life hating him. His stomach twisted into tight, painful knots. He worried he’d be sick, wondering every time he opened his mouth if a sob or vomit would come spilling out.

            Sam wished he’d been stronger, smarter, quicker on his feet. If he had had a second to think he would have run, would have refused to go with these strangers, would have fought and kicked and screamed and bit till they left. It’s what Dean would have done. He wished he was a strong as his brother, the brother he’d never see again, and _oh_ , it was too much, much too much. Sam buried his face in the pillow, the pillow that smelled of fresh detergent, not of sweat and grime and _Dean_. He dug in his nails, bit the mallow fluff, sobbed and screamed between gritted teeth till his throat was worse and his puffed out eyes ran dry.

            When Mrs. CarMcSon came to get him for dinner, he said he wasn’t feeling well. She felt his forehead, saw his bloodshot, tear-stained expression, and told him that he’d get used to this in time, that it was only normal to be sad. He rolled away from her, curled up against the wall. He swore that as soon as night fell, as soon as the first opportunity presented itself, he’d run away, run back to Dean. If Dean would have him, if he’d listen, if he’d forgive.

            He fell into a fitful sleep. The room grew hot. Sam tossed and turned beneath the blanket, tried desperately to kick it off, but it clung to him, wrapping tight around his body. Sam worried he’d suffocate. Flames licked up the sides of the back, black smoke coiling against the ceiling. It stung his eyes and burnt his throat. His nose filled with the acrid, foul stench. Sam could only twist, could only turn his head to stare into the flames which crept ever closer. Somewhere he heard screams, his parents’ screams as they burnt to death. Waves of heat rolled across his face—his skin sizzled. The tips of his hair singed and he smelled himself burning, felt the fire licking at his toes, felt his own scream clawing its way out of his throat.

            Sam awoke in a fright, sweat drenched and panicking. His heart jack-rabbited in his chest. He sat bolt upright in bed, fingers trembling as he reached for the light. A harsh, yellow glow flooded the room. The white carpet, now a dirty gray, seemed to undulate like the sea. Sam rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinked them open. It was not the carpet, but rather a thick layer of smoke, rolling in from under the door. The room sweltered; Sam had sweat through his shirt.

            He rose to shaky legs, head spinning. The heat made him dizzy; his parched throat ached for water. He reached for the doorknob and recoiled when the smoldering metal scorched his palm. With his other hand he reached into his bag, wrapping a shirt— _Dean’s shirt, packed by mistake_ —around his palm, before gripping the handle and stepping out into the hall.

            If anything the heat was worse outside. Long shadows danced along the walls, thrown from the floor below. A thick fog of smoke filled the air; Sam coughed, lifting the hem of his shirt over his mouth. His eyes watered and the world blurred out of focus, wet distortion. He felt his way along the hallway, looking for the stairs. He saw no sign of Mr. or Mrs. CarMcSon.

            Sam stumbled down the stairs when he found them, the air growing thicker, transforming into choking smoke. He could barely see two feet in front of his face; he tripped and fell over the last step, sprawling out on the ground. The carpet radiated heat, but clean air hugged the floor. Sam sucked in a greedy lungful, coughed, and inhaled again. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the coiling mass of smoke. Strands of hair, plastered by sweat, clung to his forehead. His eyes watered and stung. He rolled onto his belly and began to crawl towards the front door.

            Thick, billowing columns of smoke belched forth from the kitchen to Sam’s left. The clatter of metal on ceramic made him flinch. He squinted through the haze. In the doorway, almost totally obscured by smoke, stood a little girl, her white dress impossibly pristine against the grime.

            “Hey!” Sam called, but his voice came out chocked. He coughed himself dizzy. “Hey!” He called again. “What are you doing? We have to get— _cough_ —we have to get out of here!”

            Sam rose onto his knees, started to make his way to her, wondering how she could stand the heat, how she wasn’t coughing from the smoke. Had the CarMcSons mentioned a daughter? As Sam watched, the girl stepped towards him. Except her feet, he now noticed, didn’t touch the ground. She hovered in the air.

            Terror gripped him. Sam scrambled back, falling onto his back in his hurry to get away. He collided with an armchair. The girl floated towards him. Her eyes held Sam’s gaze with unsettling intensity. As he watched, they grew wide, pupil gradually expanding, overtaking the white, till nothing but black void stared down at him. Before his very eyes her face took flame and began to melt. She reached out a blackened, burnt hand for his throat.

            The sudden sound of broken glass. Someone hurled themselves through the shattered window. Dean rolled as he tumbled, throwing his body over Sam’s. From his pocket he tossed a handful of something white and sandy at the girl, who vanished in a puff with a shriek. Sam clung to his jacket, knuckles white with fright.

            “I got you, I got you.” Dean murmured into Sam’s hair as he gathered him up into his arm. They climbed through the same window Dean had jumped through, smoke billowing out into the crisp night air. Sam shook like a leaf as Dean carried him to the other side of the street. Over his shoulder, Sam watched the flame lick up the sides of the building, insatiable. In the distance, sirens wailed.

            “Dean.” Sam’s voice warbled, heavy with the weight of the sobs he barely managed to keep bottled up inside. “Dean, I’m-I’m so sorry, I—”

            “Hey, stop that, what’re you sorry for?” Dean sat them down on the sidewalk, Sam still bundled up in his arms, practically wrapped up in Dean’s jacket, his bird legs sprawled out on either side of Dean’s hips. He curled up in his lap, nuzzled his face into Dean’s chest, Dean’s arms around his back, holding him close.

            “I didn’t-I didn’t know what to-to-” and Sam couldn’t help it, the tears came unbidden, thick and wet, cutting clean lines down his cheeks, washing away the soot. “I shoulda run or tried to stop them, but it all happen so-so-so _fast_ and I didn’t, I—”

            “Sammy, Sammy, it’s okay, baby, it’s not your fault, listen.” But Sam couldn’t hear Dean, couldn’t rationalize over the immense, devastating sense of relief, of security and _home_ he felt wrapped in Dean’s arms. He trembled. Dean pressed him into his chest, a hand winding its way into Sam’s thick, messy hair, and beneath the terror and relief, beneath his sobs and Dean’s constant, whispered reassurance, there stirred something in Sam, some as yet unnamed thing, birthed in his belly and worming its way down into his lap and up into his heart, his body warm, skin electric, not from the rush of adrenaline or the heat of the fire still roaring across the street, but rather from the smell of Dean’s sweat and the press of his hands against Sam’s back. Dean’s lips moved against his ear, his voice soothing and quiet against the high-pitched whine of the firetrucks skidding around the corner. “I’ve got you, baby boy. Nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby. Nothing’s gonna take you from my side. I promise.”

            The police found them like that, intertwined on the sidewalk, Sam nearly black with soot, dark smudges across Dean’s face and chest from where he clutched his little brother. After taking their statements and wrapping them both in a warm blanket and giving them a couple bottles of water, they ended up taking them back to the orphanage. Looking back on it now, Sam realized they could have made a break for it, could have run off into the night and never looked back. But they were still so terribly young, with less than nothing to their name, and he figured that they’d have found them eventually, and it would only have made them look all the more guilty. As it was, the fire was ruled an accident, though the fire marshal initially suspected foul play. The CarMcSons didn’t make it. They hauled Dean in for questioning more than once, but were never able to pin arson on him.

            The home never tried to separate them again. Two years later, the day Dean turned eighteen, he formally adopted Sam. The paperwork alone should have taken weeks, but Sam suspected more than a few T’s went uncrossed, a handful of I’s left undotted, a testament to both parties’ desire to never see hide nor hair of the other ever again. They packed their things and left without a backwards glance.

            Dean checked them into a motel on the outskirts of town, with what money Sam didn’t know. Over the past couple of years, Dean had come into more cash than Sam had ever seen, more than he could earn hustling pool. They wanted for nothing, Dean providing with an intensity that should have scared Sam, had such fierceness come from anyone but Dean. He’d lost the soft curves of youth, growing hard edges, his face now a man’s and no longer a boy’s. And that same, strange stirring Sam felt that night, while orange shadows danced across his brother’s face, had grown too, till most nights Sam lay awake, an ache inside him he was terrified to name.

            Dean let drop their bags onto the carpeted floor, face moving slowly to take in the peeling wallpaper and stained sheets of the single, twin bed.

            “Gunna be a tight fit, but we’ve seen worse. Besides, it’s only for a couple nights. I’ve got word of a job over in Arkansas. I can make us some good money, set us up nice and easy.” Sam nodded like that made any sense to him, like anything mattered other than being here, with Dean. Their life stretched out before them, the other each’s only constant.

            They ordered Chinese and watched an old western on the TV. Sam sipped on his iced tea, Dean drank a beer he’d snagged from the convenience store on the corner. After they’d licked their fingers clean and brushed their teeth, they crawled into bed, tugging the sheets close around them. They tossed and turned a little, settling at last back to chest, Sam curled up against Dean, his arm draped over Sam’s waist. Dean’s skin felt hot, even through the cotton of Sam’s t-shirt. Dean’s hips pressed into Sam’s butt. Every time he wiggled Sam had to suppress a moan, nearly biting clean through his bottom lip.

            The hours ticked by, but a nervous energy animated Sam’s body. Sleep refused to come. He listened to the melodious rhythm of Dean’s breathing, felt the rise and fall of his chest as it nudged at his back. Sam squinted over at the clock on the bedside, saw it was well past midnight.

            “Dean?”

            “Yeah?” Sam had whispered, voice barely loud enough for himself to hear, afraid to wake Dean lest he’d fallen asleep. Dean answered without a second’s hesitation, in that same, quiet voice. His breath ghosted warm against the nape of Sam’s neck. He shivered.

            “I-I just wanted to say…” Sam’s eyes had long since adjusted to the dim light of the streetlamps, which poured through their thin curtains and cast a sickly, yellow glow across the bed. He glanced down at Dean’s hand, at the fingers that dangled inches from his belly. With great trepidation he touched them with his own, just barely, so soft Dean could pretend he’d imagined it if he wanted to. Without a pause, Dean grabbed Sam’s hand, interlocking their fingers, hugging it close to Sam’s chest. He squeezed, just once.

            “Yeah,” Dean grunted, voice rough and heavy with sleep. “Me too.”

 

            On Sam’s sixteenth birthday, he got a car.

            Rain had smacked down all morning, hard enough to dent, the thick patter of it like pebbles on the motel window. Sam had been cooped up since breakfast, Dean gone off somewhere to “work a job.” He did that more and more now, disappeared for stretches at a time—never more than a day or two, careful to call every few hours, just to check in—coming back bloodied and bruised and cash falling out of his pockets, more than they knew what to do with. Every couple of weeks they’d catch the bus to another town, trek to the outskirts, rent a room from a greased-out manager who didn’t ask too many questions if you paid two weeks in advance. In cash.

            Dean had left late the previous afternoon, promising he wouldn’t be long. Sam nearly chewed his fingers off waiting. He’d flipped through every channel—twice—but found little more than static and infomercials. The walls began to press in, the air stuffy and warm and smelling of half-price detergent. They’d been here for about a week, tossing and turning on their individual twin mattresses. Dean had offered him first pick; Sam had been too afraid to say _whichever one_ you _choose_ , instead throwing his bag down on the bed closet to the bathroom. The only thing within walking distance was a liquor store, and despite Dean’s success at scoring beer, Sam never managed to get more than a foot inside before he was grabbed by the scruff of his neck and tossed out.

            It bothered him, his apparent youth, more than it should have. He had just turned sixteen, after all, but despite the burgeoning swell of mass on his shoulders, the extra inches sprouting in his legs and torso, the thick patch of dark curls nestled above his cock, he still felt a child. Even if he now looked down at Dean, his brother still ruffled his hair like he’d done for as long as Sam could remember, keen, it seemed, on reminding him that despite his newfound height he was and would always be his little brother. Except the familiar affection now left a bitter taste in Sam’s mouth. What once had caused his heart to swell now made it race, palms sweaty with repressed desire.

            Sam thought back often to that fire four years ago. Much like the fire that had killed their parents, it seemed more and more like a bad dream. He told himself it was the trauma of it, the stress, that distorted his memory, his own wild imagination to blame for the nightmares he had, of girls whose feet failed to touch the ground. More often than he’d like, he’d awake screaming, drenched in a cold sweat, Dean kneeling on the edge of his bed, steady hands trying to still his quivering limbs. He’d pull Sam into a smothering embrace, would hold him till he quieted down and fell back asleep. Or at least until he pretended to.

            His skin felt electric when Dean was near, each touch a brand that sent fire down his nerves. He figured he was fucked in the head, worked it out, since normal boys did not hallucinate dead girls and wake to find damp spots on their sheets and fleeting images of their brothers dancing behind their eyelids. What had blossomed into his conscious that night, curled in Dean’s lap, face lit by the _bluewhitebluewhite_ flash of police cars, that indefinite longlining, had since become a recognizable wish. And try as he might to bury it, beneath books and distance and biting snark, it somehow resurfaced, time and again, stronger each day.

            It was easier, when Dean was gone, though his absence ached like a tooth left to rot. He’d not even been gone 24-hours, and already Sam had lowered his face into Dean’s pillow, a sinner kneeling at a shrine. He breathed deep, the thick musk of Dean’s hair sending him reeling. He lay on his bed, wrapped himself in his sheets, and allowed himself to imagine. When idle, his mind turned, always, to Dean. To his bow-legged swagger, the gruff lilt of his voice, the hard press of his body against Sam’s side whenever they were crammed into a packed city bus. He busied himself, in whatever way he could. He learned to count cards from a book he checked out at the library, fleecing boys from the nearby high school, till he had dollars to spare. He read and read and read, to rid his bones of the idea of Dean’s hands sliding up his waist, pinning him back against the wall, of Dean’s mouth pressed against the side of his neck, fingers prying at the button of his jeans and—

            Sam woke, head heavy with sleep, mouth full of the warm, foul taste of his own breath. He looked over at the clock, noted the time, and rolled over. For a second he thought perhaps he still dreamt, staring at his bag, open on his empty bed, before he realized that he’d fallen asleep, once again, on Dean’s bed. He sat up and rubbed at his temples. He went to the bathroom, turning on the faucet and waiting till the water ran clear. He cupped his hands and splashed his face before drinking down a mouthful. He yanked back the shower curtain and turned the water on hot, letting the steam fill up.

            Standing in the bathroom, he turned to examine his body in the mirror, the thin jut of his hip, the flat expanse of his stomach, the sun-browned circle of his nipples. He cast his face down, looked up at himself through fallen strands of hair, batting his lashes and pursing his lips the way the girls did at Dean, right before he took them out back to fuck them. When he showered, his hand wandered and his mind drifted to Dean. To the lean muscle beneath the leather jacket he’d filched from a department store downtown. To the curve of his lip when he smiled at a waitress, angling for a free meal. The problem was, Dean knew he was good. Too good, the girls falling over themselves in their hurry to drop their panties and climb atop him. Sam did not blame them, _shit_ , he understood them, but that did not make him resent them any less.

            Sam did not know what type of body he wanted—not a woman’s, certainly, but not this lanky mess of too-long limbs. He wanted the body that would keep Dean’s wandering eye glued to it, a body that would haunt his dreams and hurry him home, a body he could not wait to sink his teeth into the second the door was shut behind him. Sam had taken to stealing shirts two sizes too big, draped over jeans he could barely squeeze into. He wanted to reduce himself, to disappear.

            Around 2pm the storm broke, thick clouds rolled back to reveal patches of blue and incandescent shine. Sam laid on his own bed, still wrapped in a towel, hair damp and skin dappled with droplets. He thought about getting up and getting dressed, but then remembered there was nothing to do. Outside, a car pulled into the parking lot, the engine smooth as it idled before cutting off. Suddenly, the door handle rattled and in stalked Dean, squinting against the light.

            “Woah, I interrupt something?” Dean grinned wolfishly as he pretended to shield his face, kicking the door shut.

            “Dude, shut up.” Sam scrambled into the bathroom, clutching at his towel, which slipped off his waist in his hurry to shut the door.

            Dean whistled, voice muffled by the wood, but Sam could still imagine him pressed against the door. “There better be a girl in there, Sammy, no self-respecting Winchester spends the whole day jerking it when there’s a world of women out there just _begging_ for it.”

            “Don’t be gross,” Sam called through the door. He huffed, tugging his jeans up his still-damp thighs. “Women don’t exist for you to, like, prey on them.”

            “Oh they’re praying alright, praying for me to fu—”

            Sam opened the bathroom door and threw his wet towel in Dean’s face. He came out, tugging a t-shirt over his head. “Besides, do you see any women around here? You left me stranded in the middle of nowhere.”

            Dean held a hand to his chest in mock affront. “Stranded? Sammy, I set you up in four star accommodations. I mean, come on, you’ve got,” he gestured to the television, “state of the art entertainment system,” he swung his arm to take in the crumpled and empty potato chip bags, “gourmet cuisine,” he nodded his chin to the dime-store paintings hanging above the beds, “high class art. What more could a boy ask for?”

            “Maybe to spend some time with his brother on his birthday?” Sam grumbled, more to himself than to Dean, but he heard anyway. He swung an arm around Sam’s shoulders, hand reaching to tussle his hair. Sam did his best to hate it, but found himself leaning into the touch despite himself.

            “That why you’re being a little bitch? What, you think I forgot or something?”

            “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Sam slipped out from beneath Dean’s arm to sit on the edge of the bed.

            “Hey, that was _once_. Besides, I think breaking into the toy store and making off with everything we could carry more than made up for it.”

            Sam grinned, the memory of Dean’s toy-laden arms enough to wipe the sour expression off his face. They’d ended up ditching most of the booty when they’d been chased by the cops, but Sam cherished the thought nonetheless. Buried at the bottom of his bag, tucked between rolls of socks and underwear, Sam still kept a small, wooden horse, the last of their treasured trove of toys.

            “Okay, well…what’d you get me _this_ year then?”

            A sly, wolfish grin slid over Dean’s face, slick as oil. Something funny twisted in Sam’s stomach and he crossed his legs, hands folded in his lap. Normally, Dean looked at waitresses this way, or pretty, older bartenders he hoped wouldn’t card him. It meant victory, self-assured swagger that made you believe whatever bullshit he was feeding you. It was not a look meant to be given to one’s little brother. Sam squirmed beneath it, cheeks gone hot. Dean fished into his back pocket, chucking something at Sam. He scrambled to catch it, all thumbs, and it rattled against his chest before tumbling to the floor. Sam scooped up the keys, which glinted as they caught the light. He raised an eyebrow at Dean.

            In response, Dean turned and sauntered out the door. For a second Sam sat there, mesmerized by the swish of Dean’s hips, the appetizing swell of his ass in the tight pinch of his jeans, before he realized he should follow. Outside, steam rose from the asphalt, the sun a glaring, yellow eye. Dean leaned casual cool against the side of a black, ’67 Impala. He winked at Sam’s agape confusion.

            “Did you…for me?” Sam shuffled forward, hesitant, hand outstretched, hovering inches over the hood, afraid to touch it, to besmirch it, or else, to shatter the illusion of what clearly must be a dream. “Dean, how did you?”

            “A magician never reveals their secrets, Sammy, you know that.” Dean grinned, that cocky, confident grin, like he knew he done good. He opened the passenger door and ducked inside. “Come on, get in.”

            Sam slid into the driver seat, the leather crinkling beneath him. He shut the door and reverently slid his hands over the steering wheel. He looked over at Dean, goofy smile from ear to ear, honest to God speechless.

            “Well what, you just gunna look at it all day, or are you gunna turn it on?”

            “I was gunna—shut up, just let me…” Sam fumbled with the keys, Dean snorting beside him, before he finally slotted them into the ignition. He licked his lips and turned the key. The engine roared to life. Dean whooped out a joyous holler, clapping Sam on the shoulder. He squeezed, fingers kneading the tense muscle, Sam’s body thrummed in time with the engine.

            “Whadda say we take her once around the block?” Dean leaned back in his seat, rolling down the window to let his hand dangle over the side. “First, you gotta put her in reverse, then—”

            “I _know_ how to drive, Dean, I’m not eight.” Sam threw the car into reverse, peeled out of the parking lot and tore off down the road. Dean threw his head back and laughed, clapped a hand on Sam’s knee, till Sam took a sharp turn and his fingers slid off.

            Truth be told, even when Sam was eight he knew the basics of brake and gas. Life at the home was built upon bricks of unstructured time, long, languid hours, left to swelter in the oppressive heat of summer in a dorm stuffed with unwashed boys and no A/C. First chance they got, Dean would sneak them out, lead them to some posh strip of boutiques downtown. The chrome chassis sparkled like gold in the sun. It was almost too easy, Sam working look out while Dean jimmied the lock. They’d spend all afternoon cruising around, windows down and radio up, playing at freedom, before dumping the car somewhere, careful always to wipe down their prints. As soon as his legs could reach, Dean had Sam crawling into his lap, his thick, calloused fingers overlaid on Sam’s on the wheel. When they’d got too big for them both to fit, Dean had relinquished the driver’s seat—albeit reluctantly, and never for very long—so Sam could get his road legs. But _this_ , this wasn’t play, they wouldn’t have to abandon the car within a couple hours, careful to slip away without being seen. No, this was _his_ , all his. And Dean had gotten it for him.

            “You hear that purr? Man, this baby’s got a sweet engine, Sammy, I tell you what. Once we get a little cash, we can fix her up _real_ good, and man, _fuck_ , she’s gunna sing!”

            Sam nodded along, too happy to say anything, afraid one word; one wrong gesture would jar them from the earth-stopping joy of this moment. The wind whipping against his face, Dean beside him, singing along to the Led Zeppelin blasting from the radio, fingers flying over his make-believe guitar. The soft vibration of the car, _his_ car, beneath him, the overwhelming sense of freedom and possibility, as if nothing in the world could now be denied to him, if only he would reach out and take it. Being in love, blind, stupid love, that searing, white-hot love that can only grow in the rich, black soil of a sixteen year old heart. Sam looked at Dean in the rearview, green caught in brown, and he smiled, flashed that panty-dropping, lady killer smile, and Sam knew as sure as he knew anything, that he meant it.

            Sam had just turned down Sunflower Lane when he spotted the flashing lights in the side mirror. As if on cue, waiting for him to notice, they flicked on the siren. A high-pitched, whining wail exploded from behind them. Dean shot up in his seat, instantly lost the slump in his shoulders. He twisted to glance back at the cops.

            “ _Shit_. Shit fuck God-DAMN it!” Dean clawed open the glove compartment, scattering fast-food napkins and outdated road maps on the floor by his feet. Sam edged toward the shoulder of the road, foot eased off the gas. “What’re you doing?”

            “Pulling over.” Sam’s eyes went wide when Dean pulled out a handgun. Dean checked the chamber, counted the rounds. “What’re _you_ doing?”

            “The fuck it look like? No fucking way we’re pulling over for the cops in a stolen car, are you kidding me?” Dean knelt, knees digging into the leather, to lean over the back of the seat. He trained the cop car in his sights. “Just keep driving, okay? And don’t stop till I say so.”

            Sam nodded, grip tightening on the steering wheel. He hunkered down, hyper-focused on the road ahead of him. He fed the engine gas, eye flicking to the dash to watch the speedometer tick higher and higher. The police car kept pace, inching closer, the siren an incessant, banshee wail. A voice crackled over a loudspeaker, thick with static.

            “Pull—over. Pull over. This is your—your final warning.”

            Sam looked at Dean, but Dean didn’t take his eyes off the car behind them. His thumb cocked the hammer. His forefinger rested against the trigger. He barely breathed.

            Sam swerved to the right, sharp enough for the Impala’s two left wheels to bounce off the pavement. Dean slammed into the passenger door with a startled swear. Sam leaned forward and gunned the engine. The acceleration threw Dean back against his seat. He craned his neck back; the police sizzled in pursuit.

            “Sammy, what’re you—”

            “Sit down!” Sam shoved his brother back into his seat before ripping through a red-light intersection. The green hood of a minivan narrowly missed them, only scraped the bumper. A chorus of horns blared as they screeched. The police sped, hot on their tail. Sam’s eyes darted about the road, looking for something, _anything_ —

            Ahead, on their left, an open air market. Sam whipped them around, plunged into the narrow avenues crammed with shoppers. Like a surreal synchronized dive, pedestrians hurled themselves out of their way as Sam tore past stands laden with household goods and fresh produce. Behind them, but with a graceful margin, the police tried to follow without injuring any civilians. Sam grinned to himself as he watched them slow to a crawl in the rearview.

            “Sam!”

            Sam snapped his face forward in time to watch the avalanche of fruit tumbled over their windshield as they smashed into a stand. Oranges and bananas exploded across the windshield; Sam felt a clump of pulp hit his shoulder through the open window. Sam scrambled with the wipers, the blades pushing rind and peel out the way.

            “Are they still following?”

            “What?” Dean leaned back through the window to pick a hunk of grapefruit off the windshield.

            “The cops, Dean, the cops! Are they still following us?”  Dean looked back, squinted and scrutinized. Sam, barely able to see where he was going as is, didn’t dare turn back to check. “Well?”

            “No.” Dean slumped back into his seat. “We lost ‘em.”

            Sam sighed in relief. He shook, just a little, excess nervous energy funneled out in the _taptaptap_ of his fingers on the wheel.

            “Stop the car.” Sam darted a glance at Dean, unsure he’d heard him, that he’d actually spoken.

            “What?”

            “I said, stop the car!” Dean barked and grabbed the wheel, pulled them off onto the side of the road.

            “Dean, what’re you—the cops could still be—”

            “Screw the cops.” Dean kicked open his door and strode around to yank open Sam’s. “Get out.”

            Sam sputtered but obeyed, afraid by the tight tension in his brother’s jaw. Dean shoved him out of the way so he could slide into the driver’s seat. He nodded at the passenger seat. “Get in.” Sam stood frozen. “I said, get in!”

            The engine roared as Dean tore off down the road. Beneath the rumble of the pistons firing, Sam could hear the low, constant grumble of Dean’s anger. He chewed his lips as he talked, worrying it to a hunk of raw met.

            “Of all the stupid—you realize you coulda gotten yourself killed back there, don’t you?”

            Sam started at the bite in Dean’s voice, that electric undercurrent of anger. But instead of being cowed, he rose to the occasion, twisting in his seat to jab a finger at Dean’s chest. “Me? What about you? When did you start carrying a gun, Dean? Matter of fact, where did you even get a gun? Huh? And when were you gunna tell me the Impala was _stolen_?”

            “Oh, wise up, Sammy. You think I could afford a car like this?”

            “So what, couldn’t be bothered to actually buy me a present, you had to go and steal one?”

            “Give me a break.” Dean punched the steering wheel and shot Sam a glare. “You kidding me with this shit? Since when do you give a flying fuck what I steal?”

            “I care when you get sloppy,” Dean rolled his eyes away from Sam, “when you put us in danger, when you put _yourself_ in danger. And for what, Dean? Huh, why go through the trouble? For a stupid car?”

            “For your birthday, idiot!” Dean shouted, loud even over the rush of wind. “I wanted it to be special, alright? No one did jack shit for my sixteenth birthday, I certainly didn’t get a car. So what if I wanted to give you something to remember, so sue me.”

            Sam sat, stunned into silence. If he listened he could hear Dean grind his teeth. He glared straight ahead, stony set to his face, Sam a giant blind spot on the seat beside him. His stomach upended itself and his heart refused to cease fluttering.

            “Don’t go getting all soppy on me. It’s your birthday.” Dean looked at him, just for a second, just a flash of green in the rearview. “Of course I did this for you. I’d do anything for you.”

            Sam _wasn’t_ crying, it was just the wind in his eyes. He rubbed the back of his hand across his face. “Dean, I…thank you. I love…it. I love it, the car. Really, I do.”

            “Love it all you want, but I ain’t letting you drive this thing again till you’re 23, that’s for damn sure.”

            “But it’s my car!” Sam pouted at his brother, the tension between them gone. Dean grinned through his protests. “You gave it to me!”

            “Yeah, and now I’m taking it back. You drive like a madman, I clearly ain’t finished teaching you yet.”

            Sam slouched down in his seat, arms crossed at his chest. Though he simmered in mock rage, on the inside he glowed with the truth of Dean’s affection, assured in the depth of his devotion. Sam jutted his chin to the fruit-splattered windshield. “Guess we’re having fruitcake for dessert, huh?”

            Dean looked at him, one eyebrow arched, and Sam worried for one terrible instant that he’d misjudged the moment, that Dean was still sore, still upset, till his mouth opened in an uproarious guffaw, laughing so hard he slapped the steering wheel and tears sprang into his eyes. Sam laughed too, not at his own joke, but at the simple ease of Dean’s joy. They laughed till their sides ached and their faces were streaked with tears.

            They parked on the edge of town by the river to watch the sunset. Dean unscrewed the license plate and tossed it into the water, taping a piece of paper with _Tags Applied For_ in its place. They opted for pizza instead of fruitcake, and Dean managed to wrangle them a case of beer while Sam wiped the mess off the windshield. They sat together on the hood, Sam’s legs curled up tight against his chest, Dean leaning back against the bumper.

            “Here’s to you, birthday boy.” Dean snapped open his beer with a wet _hissss_ and raised it in salute. Sam watched the bob of his throat when he swallowed.

            “Yeah, to me.” Sam sipped the foam off the top of the can and grimaced at the bitter taste. “Thanks, again. For everything.”

            Dean shrugged, took another pull of his beer, licked the foam off his upper lip. “Course. You’re my brother.” Dean swiveled his face around to look at him. “Next year though, no car chases, deal?”

            “Yeah,” Sam laughed, indescribably happy, “okay. Deal.”

            The sun burnt yellow, then orange and on to red as it dipped lower and lower in the sky. It squatted on the horizon like an egg, warm and ready to hatch. Sam threw his head back and closed his eyes, savoring the last remnants of the day, warmth on his cheeks. He heard the hiss of another beer being opened, peaked out of the corner of his eye to watch Dean resettle against the hood. He lounged, relaxed and easy, not a tense muscle in his entire body. He rested back on one elbow, beer cradled in his hand, eyes unreadable as he watched the sky blaze and darken. He ran his ringer over the lip of the can, a steady, monotonous rhythm, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

            Sam’s own thumb mimicked the movement as he unfurled his legs and put his weight on the ground. He felt the tightness in his spine soften as he straightened. Dean’s eyes stayed fixed on the darkening horizon, scanning for the first glimpse of stars. Sam watched him and felt with the unshakable certainty of one in love that he _knew_ Dean, truly knew him. That he could pluck the thought from his mind and speak it true, if only he wished it. That he would recognize the fall of his feet on motel carpet, would know the sound of his breathing even in the darkest of nights, even in death.

            Sam drained the rest of his beer, head tipped back till the muscles in his neck groaned in protest. He crunched the aluminum between his fingers and tossed it to the ground. A looseness pervaded his body, an easy fluidity, his limbs made of water. He found himself smiling for no reason whatsoever. His face felt warm and he wondered if he was blushing.

            “Hey, litterbug.” Sam rolled his face to look at Dean. The proffered can glinted in the last light of day. “Another one?” Sam reached for the beer, overshot, and grabbed Dean’s wrist. Used it as leverage to pull himself upright. He wobbled, just slightly, on his feet. “Easy there, light weight. Don’t want you puking all ov—”

            Dean tasted like beer and greasy pizza. Sam crawled onto his laps, knees on either side of his hips, a hand fisted in his shirt. His jeans slipped on the sleek chrome of the hood, and Dean reached up to catch him, hands large and powerful, spread over his ass. Sam thrilled at the touch, moaning into Dean’s mouth.

            “Sammy, you, you’re-” Dean murmured against Sam’s lips, pulled back just enough to speak. The suspension creaked as they shifted. Sam hovered over his brother’s lap, face inches from his. “You’re drunk.”

            “Not drunk,” Sam slurred against Dean’s mouth as he licked at his lips. “I just, I just want—”

            “Sammy, we,” Dean eased Sam back, hand insistent on his chest, “we can’t. I mean, we…we can’t.”

            Sam looked at his brother. Dean’s eyes darted to the sky, the ground, the water bobbing in the background, anywhere but Sam’s face. Sam lowered himself off the hood, off of the delicious heat and stirring hardness of Dean’s lap. He stood before him, just barely taller. He counted the freckles on his nose.

            “Kiss me.”

            “Sam, I—”

            “Kiss me and tell me you don’t mean it.”

            Sam stared in challenge. Dean looked at him, just once, just for a breath. Then he lunged, wrapping his arms around him, fingers like claws in his back, gripping, holding on for dear life. They stumbled against the hood, Dean atop him, the weight of him delicious in its crushing.

            “Sammy, Sam, oh God, I-I love—”

            Sam kissed him, sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. Eventually they found their way to the backseat. They stayed there all night, till the windows fogged and the upholstery reeked of them. Dean fell asleep atop him, head nestled in the tuck of his chin. Sam looked through the window, up at the ceiling of stars. As he watched, a point of light streaked across the sky. He smiled and watched it go. He already had everything he could wish for.

 

 

            On Sam’s eighteenth birthday, he got lucky. And arrested.

            It was stupid, really, and entirely Dean’s fault. He’d spent the morning moaning about orange soda. On and on, pressed against Sam’s body in the narrow, twin-sized bed. It had, he said, appeared to him in a dream.

            “It tasted so _good_.” Dean nibbled on his neck. “Like you.”

            “Why don’t you go get some from the vending machine then?”

            Dean wrapped a hand around his morning wood. “Cause then I couldn’t do _this_.”

            After they’d finished and wiped themselves clean, Dean had in fact gone looking for some while Sam showered. Even under the spray he heard the door slam shut. Dean sulked on the bed, barely looking up to rake his eyes over his brother’s lean, wet form.

            “They were out?” Sam guessed. Dean nodded, glum. Sam sat down beside him, toweled knee pressing against the seam of Dean’s jeans. “I’m sure the corner store has some. Why don’t we go check?”

            They scarfed down a couple power bars and did just that. Sure enough, the convenience store _did_ have orange soda…normally. But, the clerk informed them, they’d sold out not fifteen minutes before they’d walked in, and the usual shipment had been delayed.

            Dean fumed as he stomped back to the car. Sam danced around him, nudging his shoulder, cracking jokes about the tourists pouring over roadmaps in the parking lot, but Dean only hunched further over the steering wheel.

            “I’mma drive around for a bit,” Dean said, reaching over to open Sam’s door. “Clear my head. Why don’t you wait back at the motel or something, okay?”

            Sam, too stunned to respond, numbly climbed out of the car and watched Dean drive away. He found himself plunged into sudden moroseness. Sam put little stock in tradition—a childhood deprived of Christmases and family dinners instilled in him a sense that kitsch and Hallmark were only for nuclear families and selling cards. But despite it all, he still clung to his birthday, to his one shred of normalcy. He tried to pretend that it did not sting, Dean forgetting, that the tears pooling in the corner of his eyes was due to dust, that his heart had not dropped into his stomach and floated, slowly dissolved in acid.

            They had been different, Dean and him, ever since they had tumbled into the backseat of the Impala, hungry hands ripping off clothes and touching all the places brothers should never touch. They didn’t hold hands or any of that sweetheart stuff. At least not in public. And they still fought, like when Dean ate the last of the Captain Crunch or spilled soda on their _only_ pillow. But a bond had been forged between them, something stronger than blood, fiercer than the fire that had almost claimed both their lives. It was as if whatever space had existed between them, whatever room there had been for another person to slip in, had now vanished, leaving only the press of hip and chest and mouth. Or so Sam thought.

            The motel, empty without Dean, with its sad, yellowed wallpaper, its uncategorized stains and broken television, depressed him, so he decided to wander into town. The main strip, populated with bars and restaurants mostly, featured a used bookstore. Sam spent an hour browsing, fingers ghosting over cracked spines. The smell of dust calmed the ache a little, reminded him of escape.

            The sun hovered high in the sky by the time he wandered out. He squinted against the glare. His stomach rumbled and his mouth had long since gone dry. He cast his gaze up and down the street till he spotted a gas station. A bell attached to the door chimed when he walked in. The middle-aged man behind the counter barely looked up from his magazine. Sam strolled down aisles overflowing with powdered donuts and candy bars. He grabbed a selection, not caring what he ate, before swinging by the row of refrigerated glass doors. He scanned, opting for a bottle of water, when he spotted it.

            Nestled between a row of cokes and iced coffees, glistening in chrome-blue, a can of orange soda. Sam nearly dropped his pack of peanuts when he saw it. His heart leapt as he opened the display door, a wave of cold hitting his face. Sam grabbed it, shuffling around his other purchases, and made his way to the counter.

            Without a word the clerk rang him up. The total came to $8.47. Sam dug into his pocket, only to realize he’d left his wallet back in the motel. He felt the man staring at him, waiting. An impatient frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. Sam’s eyes darted between the pile of food and drinks on the counter, the unamused worker, and the front door.

            He didn’t think, really. Only imagined the look on Dean’s face when he handed him the soda, proof he loved him, forgave him, even if he forgot his birthday. Sam grabbed the can of orange soda and dashed for the door, but he’d failed to notice the broken ice machine by the entrance and the pool of water spreading across the floor. He slipped, his foot flying out from underneath him. The world tilted and his head slammed onto the wet tiles.

            Everything went black.

            He awoke to two uniformed police officers hauling him to his feet. The world, jumbled and out of focus, took a second to fall into place. The faint buzzing in his ears faded, and he heard the clerk’s report of his attempted theft. An officer ushered him out of the store and into the back of a squad car.

            Screwed did not begin to describe Sam’s situation. True, Sam and Dean were no strangers to run-ins with the law, but they’d always managed to slip away, leaving nothing but fingerprints, and even then only when they got sloppy. Which, Sam now realized, could come back to bite him in the ass. Petty theft was one thing, but grand theft auto? Not to mention arson, suspected or not. Sam felt the cold, steel bars of prison start to close in around him.

            The police more or less ignored him, handcuffed in the back of the squad car, as they made their way to the station. The officer driving, _Jones_ Sam thought he heard, complained about his wife.

            “Sheila knows the kinda work I do, the stress I’m under, but do I get any respect? _No_ , soon as I step foot in the house, _bam!_ She starts busting my balls, telling me I don’t spend enough time with the kids, can you believe that crap?”

            Sam’s hands were cuffed in the front, and for that he was grateful, but his face fell when he patted his pockets and found them empty. _No lock picks, no Houdini._ The officers noted his forlorn expression as they hauled him out of the car.

            “Yeah, bet you regret that little stunt now, don’t you? Tell me, son, was that soda really worth it?”

            Sam wanted to tell him it would have been, that for Dean, no price was too dear, even jail. But he kept quiet as they booked him and ran his prints. They led him to a small interrogation room. A single, dirty window let in a gray knife of light and the faint sound of traffic.

            After about half an hour a detective came in and sat across from him. He slid over a Styrofoam cup of coffee, which Sam did not touch.

            “Sam, is it?” The detective looked up from his folder and offered Sam a small smile. “I’m Detective Garcia.” Sam made no indication he’d heard. The skin on his wrists chaffed where the cuffs rubbed against it. “Mighty bit of trouble you’ve got yourself in here.”

            “Didn’t realize soda had become such a precious commodity.”

            Detective Garcia barked out a laugh and flashed a grin that could only be described as wolfish.

            “Oh, we won’t even bother charging you for that.” Sam looked up quick, caught the detective’s eye. “No, see I’m much more interested in that fire six years ago.” Detective Garcia slid the opened folder across the table. Sam peered down at the glossy shots of charred remains, the smoldering remnants of a house. “Seems the CarMcSons were already dead when the fire started.” Detective Garcia flipped to a medical examiner’s report. “Heads bashed in. Nasty business. Now, how do you figure that?”

            Sam said nothing, tongue thick and heavy and suddenly too big for his mouth. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead and his heart raced at the memory of the little girl whose feet didn’t touch the ground. He’d told no one—not even Dean—but sometimes, on moonless nights when the wind howled, he saw her in his nightmares.

            Detective Garcia, either failing to notice Sam’s distress, or simply not caring, continued. “You want to know what I think happened? I think you and your brother killed them, and I think you set the fire to cover your tracks. And I’d bet my bottom dollar that if I combed through the insurance report, I’d find some inconsistencies, a few valuables gone missing.”

            Sam swallowed the taste of bile. “You think we killed two people just to rob them?”

            “Maybe.” Detective Garcia leaned forward till Sam could smell the stale coffee on his breath. “Or maybe you did it just for the thrill of it.” Sam felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. Detective Garcia leaned back in his chair, sporting a smug, self-satisfied grin. “Or maybe I’m wrong, who knows? Maybe your brother,” his eyes flicked down to the report, “Dean, did it all by himself. Word on the street is he’s had a few run-ins before, nothing that stuck, nothing anyone could book him on. Maybe you had nothing to do with it. We _could_ let a jury decide.” Detective Garcia laid his hands flat on the table and leveraged himself up. “Or you could help me out here. Tell me what really happened.”

            Sam refused to look at him, too gone in the tailspin of his worst fears. Dean hadn’t hurt anyone, hell, he’d saved Sam’s life. But who would believe him? Worse, who would believe his story about the floating girl? Sam wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

            He knew how his brother looked, how a jury would see him. All bad boy swagger and street urchin tough, troubled past and a rap sheet as long as the road. They’d convict him as soon as look at him. Sam balled his hands into fists so hard he thought his nails would taste blood.

            “It was me,” he whispered.

            Detective Garcia looked sharp at him, eyes narrowed to slits. “What’d you say?”

            “It was me,” Sam repeated, louder. “All of it, all the—” Sam gestured vaguely to the crime scene photos spread out across the table, “—it was all me. Dean had nothing to do with it.”

            Detective Garcia fell back in his seat, deflated and a little disappointed. He let out a long breath; he looked genuinely surprised. “Well. Can’t say I was expecting _that_.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tape recorder, which he set on the table between them. He pushed the red RECORD button. “Start at the beginning.”

            Just then the interrogation room  door flew open. Sam gasped and did his best to make it sound like a cough. Dean, dressed to the nines in a suit that hugged him like a lover, smoothed down his tie as he stepped in, swinging a briefcase onto the table.

            “Who the fuck are you?” Detective Garcia surged to his feet, but Dean stared him down, cool as ice, and waved him back to his seat.

            “Robert Plant, esquire. I’m Mr. Winchester's legal counsel.” Dean extended his hand and grinned.

            “He didn’t lawyer up,” Detective Garcia ground out through clenched teeth.  “How’d you even know he was here? You’ve got no authority to—”

            Dean turned to Sam, his back to Detective Garcia, and winked. “My law firm specializes in providing legal assistance to orphans. Mr. Winchester, do you agree to my representing you?” Sam nodded so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Dean grinned around a mouthful of canary. “There, he lawyered up. Now,” Dean motioned to the door, “if you’d please, there are some matters I’d like to discuss with my client. In private.”

            For a second Sam thought Detective Garcia would refuse, could call Dean’s bluff, or worse, recognize him. But he turned on his heels and stormed out. Together the boys let out a sigh of relief. Dean moved to the window, forcing it open and sticking his head out into the alley.

            “Dean, Dean, I—”

            “No time.” Dean hauled Sam to his feet and shoved him towards the window. “Tell me later.” He helped Sam lift one leg over the sill, then the other, before following him out. Around the corner they found the Impala parked behind a dumpster. Breathlessly they climbed in, Dean not bothering to check the rearview as he threw the car into reverse and sped away from the station.

            Dean neglected to turn on the radio. Instead Sam listened to the wind howl, watching the tense muscles in his brother’s jaw twitch. Sam’s hands, still cuffed, lay in his lap. He worried a frayed tear on his jeans.

            When they got to the motel, Dean cut the engine, but made no move to get out of the car. His hands, knuckles gripped white, held the wheel. His nostrils flared with each breath.

            “Dean, I—”

            “How could you be so stupid?” Dean turned on him, voice loud in the quiet confines of the car. “Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

            “Dean, I didn’t mean to—”

            “Getting arrested? Over a can of _soda_? I mean, just how fucking stupid can you be?”

            Dean looked at him, hard, and Sam dropped his gaze to his lap. He twirled the metal around his wrist, felt it ache.

            “I wanted to get it for you.”

            “What?” Dean leaned in to hear him. “What’d you say?”

            “I wanted to get it for you. The soda, you…” Sam darted his eyes to Dean, just a quick once-over, his brows knit in pretty consternation, “you forgot my birthday, and you were so bummed about the orange soda, and I thought.” Sam shrugged, and his chest rattled with the weight of his sigh. “I just didn’t want us both to be disappointed is all, I guess.”

            They were quiet for a minute, listening to the other breathe. When Sam dared to steal a glance at Dean he saw his eyes were wet. Something sharp twisted in his chest.

            Then Dean laughed, one loud bark, like it’d been ripped out of him. He kept laughing, even when Sam looked at him like he’d pulled an _Exorcist_ and his head was spinning around.

            “Stupid,” Dean muttered as he kicked open the car door, “so fucking stupid.”

            Sam scrambled out after him, stumbling a bit, cuffed hands outstretched, reaching for Dean, who fished the motel key out of his back pocket. He pushed the door open wide, stepped aside. He waved Sam in.

            Streamers hung from the window and off of the bed. Balloons, all colors of the rainbow, littered the floor. A crudely drawn banner over the bathroom door read: _Happy Birthday Bitch_. A cake, complete with candles, sat next to a cheap bottle of champagne on the desk.

            “I didn’t forget.” Dean stepped up close behind him, a whisper in his ear. “I didn’t even want the soda. I just needed an excuse to leave. I wanted it to be a surprise. I thought…” Dean chuckled, and when he spoke his voice sounded wet. “Man, did I ever fuck this up, huh?”

            Sam threw himself at his brother. He looped his arms around him, handcuffs tugging at the back of his neck as he bit his bottom lip and pleaded entry with his tongue. Dean, startled, gasped and Sam drank kisses from his open mouth.

            They stumbled back against the door, Dean letting out a little huff. His hands found Sam’s shirt front, tugging him close, holding him in place. With a sudden pull Dean flipped them, his body pressed hot against Sam, sandwiched between him and the door.

            “Don’t think this means I’m not pissed you got arrested.” Dean’s breath puffed hot against the side of Sam’s throat. Dean sucked a bruise below his left ear.

            “Guess you’ll just have to punish me.”

            Dean brought his face back enough to stare up at Sam, at his kiss-swelled lips, at his flushed cheeks and blown eyes. Stray bits of sweat-soaked hair stuck to his forehead. Dean smiled, a feral curve to his lips.

            Dean grabbed the collar of Sam’s shirt and tore a line straight down to his belly. He grabbed Sam’s wrists and slammed them against the door above his head. He lowered his face to nose at a nipple before attacking the pert bud with his mouth.

            Sam writhed against the cool grain of the wood, flesh aflame. Sweat beaded on his lower back and he slid as he bucked into the hand cupped over his jean clad crotch. When Dean bit down he swore.

            “Hey, that’s your mom too you’re talking about.” Dean kissed him rough, biting till Sam whimpered and moaned and let Dean’s tongue slither inside him. Sam pushed against Dean’s grip, but his brother was too strong. He ran his tongue lazy down Sam’s neck, teeth scraping against his collarbone. Dean swirled the tip around a pebbled nipple before sucking it back into his mouth.

            “Dean, oh _fuck_ , Dean.” Sam’s head lolled against the door. Dean intertwined their fingers and squeezed, his other hand kneading his brother’s tumescent cock. “Please, please, fuck, Dean, I, I want—”

            Dean flipped him over, so his cheek and chest pressed into the door. A stinging pain blossomed across his ass as Dean brought his hand down hard across it.

            “Who gives a fuck what you want?” Dean smacked Sam’s ass again. “I thought you needed to be punished.” _Smack_. “Isn’t that what you said?” Sam groaned and arched his back, ass thrust out to meet each punishing blow. “Say it.” Dean grabbed a handful of Sam’s ass, squeezed. Brought his hand back down, hard. The sound echoed. “ _Say it_.”

            “Please.” Sam moaned, open mouth pressed to the door. “Please, Dean, I— _smack_ —I need to be punished.”

            Dean pressed his mouth in between Sam’s shoulder blades, and Sam could feel the smirk against his skin. Dean shoved a hand down the back of his jeans, fingers digging between his cheeks, toying with his hole. Sam moaned open-mouth into the door, tugging at the cuffs. He winced at the delicious burn as metal rubbed against raw skin.

            Dean ran his finger in languid circles around Sam’s hole. Not pushing, only teasing, his grip tight on Sam’s wrists. Sam felt hot, feverish, the underside of his arms wet. He arched his back and pushed against Dean’s finger, begging for more. Dean slipped his hand out of his pants, and Sam’s disappointed whimper turned to a yelp as Dean brought his hand down hard on his ass.

            “You want it, don’t you, Sammy?” _Smack_. The dry crack of it split the air. “Would’ve been pretty hard to give it to you in prison. Don’t think they let brothers have conjugal visits.” _Smack_. Tears stung at the corner of Sam’s eyes. “What would you have done without your big brother’s dick?”

            “I’d’ve found someone to take care of me.”

            Dean stilled, raised hand frozen mid-swing. Sam stole a glance over his shoulder, hair half-hiding his face. A muscle in Dean’s jaw tightened. He could hear his teeth grinding. His nostrils flared. Jealousy piqued, his hand on Sam’s wrist tightened to just shy of painful. Sam’s heart raced and his dick swelled.

            “Bed.” Dean grabbed him, tossed him onto the threadbare mattress. Sam flopped back, cuffs rattling, but before he could sit up Dean was on him, smothering him, the delicious weight of him pressing him down as he sucked at his tongue and bit his lip. Sam moaned into his brother’s mouth, looping the chain around the back of his neck. He threaded his fingers through his hair, grip hard, tugged and guided him down. Dean shoved his tattered shirt aside, sucked a nipple into his mouth and scrapped his teeth against the sensitive aureole till Sam cussed and Dean thought he’d yank out a clump of his scalp.

            Fingers worked furiously at the buttons of Sam’s jeans. Once freed, Dean whisked them off his legs, flinging them over his shoulder. He stood and hurried out of his clothes. Sam watched him undress. He raked his eyes over his heaving chest, followed the flush down from his neck, past his collarbone, to the dark brown quarters of his nipples. He drank him in, like an oasis after years in the desert. His eyes lingered on the gentle bulge of his stomach, the square set of his hips. The muscles in Dean’s thighs flexed under Sam’s scrutiny. Even after all the years, even though they’d fucked hundreds of times by now, the sight of Dean’s dick, swollen and red, just for him, a drop of pre-cum beaded at the flared slit, still stopped Sam dead, still made his mouth water and his hole wink.

            “See something you like, Sammy?” Dean knelt on the edge of the bed, one hand fisted around his cock.

            “Yeah,” Sam said, bringing his own cuffed hands down between his legs, fingers circling his hole, “you.”

            With a smirk Dean grabbed the back of Sam’s thighs and pushed his knees into his chest. His ass lifted off the bed and Dean lowered his face in between his cheeks. He nosed at the soft skin along his cleft, ran his tongue along the seam. A shiver ran over Sam’s whole body.

            Dean pressed his mouth to Sam’s hole. He licked, sweeping his tongue in fat swipes, over and over and over it. Sam’s groans devolved into wet, mewling whines as spit dribbled down his balls. His cock bobbed over his face, a dripping drop of pre-cum threatening to fall into his mouth. He fisted both hands into Dean’s hair, pressed his face harder, deeper, into his ass.

            Dean swirled his tongue around Sam’s widening hole. It dipped in and out, in and out, till Sam’s thighs trembled in Dean’s hands. He bit, hard, into the swell of a cheek, and Sam yelped. Sweat pricked his forehead, and he was painfully, achingly, hard.

            “Dean.” Sam soothed a hand down the back of his brother’s neck. Dean _hmmed_ in response, tongue once more squirming inside Sam’s ass. “Dean, _please_. I—I can’t.” Dean pressed his lips over Sam’s hole and nibbled the tender flesh. Sam shook, knuckles gone white in the clutch of Dean’s hair. “ _Dean_ , please, I—I’m begging, fuck me, please, Dean, I _need_ you to fuck me.”

            Dean lifted his face away and stared down at him with verdant eyes. His mouth, swollen and red, glistened and spread into a smirk.

            “Anything for my baby boy.” He hitched Sam’s ankles onto his shoulders and nodded to the bedside table. Sam shoved a balloon out of the way and reached for tub of Vaseline, handing it to Dean. He applied it liberally, the wet squelch making Sam’s heart race. Dean held Sam’s gaze, corners of his mouth ticked up in a grin. He wiped his hand on the sheets and positioned the head of his dick against Sam’s hole.

            Sam sucked in a breath as Dean pushed in, the sharp stretch like the first time. Dean rubbed at the back of his thighs as he inched deeper, Sam’s eyes screwed shut. His breath huffed out his nostrils, and Dean bottomed out. He trembled, thighs lightly shaking, as his body stretched to accommodate the girth of his brother’s cock. Dean leaned forward, and Sam grunted at the sudden shift inside him. Dean nosed at his jaw, tilting his face up to capture his mouth. His tongue ran over and between his lips. It moved about inside him. Underneath the dollar store toothpaste, Sam tasted something unfamiliar on his brother’s tongue, something ripe and new. He moaned into the kiss when he realized he was tasting himself.

            He began to squirm, to move his hips, writhing at the delicious fullness in his ass. As if on cue, Dean pulled halfway out and slid back in, again and again, thrusts quickly mounting in speed. His fingers dug into the meat of Sam’s thighs as his hips snapped against his ass. Sam looped the cuffs around Dean’s neck, tugging him down to bite on his fat bottom lip.

            “Fuck me,” he growled against Dean’s mouth, “fuck me, Dean, come on, fuck me harder.” Dean shifted his weight, leaning on Sam’s thighs, knees digging into Sam’s chest. His balls smacked against Sam’s ass as he pounded into him. Sam threw his head back, neck exposed, and Dean latched onto his throat, sucking and kissing and licking and biting. His nails bit into the tender flesh of his thighs as he slammed into the tight heat of Sam’s ass.

            “You like that, Sammy? Yeah, you fucking _love_ it. Say it. Tell me how much you fucking love my dick in your ass.”

            “I love it,” Sam whined, voice loud to be heard over the wet smack of Dean’s hips. “God, Dean, I _fucking_ love it.” Dean shifted the angle, and Sam moaned high and long as his body exploded into flames. Each punishing thrust sent fire dancing to the tips of his toes and the top of his head.

            The air smelt of sweat and sex, room sweltering, even for late spring. Dean’s hands slipped and slid along his slick skin. Sam’s vision blurred as Dean drilled into him, head of his dick grinding against that secret spot inside him. He squeezed around Dean’s cock; Dean’s moan slurred into a swear.

            Dean gathered him up into his arms and rolled onto his back. Sam lifted into the air to sit on Dean’s dick. He steadied himself, hands braced on Dean’s heaving chest. Dean stared up at him, pupils like pennies, cheeks flushed and mouth wet.

            “Show me how much you love it. Let me see how you ride your big brother’s dick.” Dean urged him on with a slap on the ass.

            Sam bobbed, pressing into Dean’s chest as he rose onto his knees, Dean’s cock sliding partway out before he sunk back down. Sam rolled his head back and let his eyes fall shut as he rode him. His nails dug into Dean’s flesh as he moved faster and faster, ass slapping down onto Dean’s lap. Dean grabbed handfuls of his ass, bucking his hips up in time with Sam, spilling forth filthy encouragement.

            “Fuck yeah, Sammy, ride that dick. _Fuck_ , you’re such a fucking pro. God, you take it so good, baby boy. Like you were fucking made for it. How’d you learn to take dick so good?”

            Sam slid his hands up to either side of Dean’s face, chain taunt across his throat. His lips ghosted over Dean’s.

            “I had a really good teacher.”

            Dean’s moan came out in a chocked wheeze as Sam pressed the handcuffs tighter against his neck. His grip turned painful as he held Sam in place and thrust up into him with bruising force. Sam felt his balls tighten up against his body as liquid heat pooled and spilled forth from his belly. The muscles in his thighs contracted and his toes curled into the sheets as he came.

            Thick, ropey strings of cum splattered across Dean’s belly and chest. Dean grabbed Sam’s cock and jerked out another jet of thick jizz. Dean fucked him through his orgasm, pounding away, red-faced and barely breathing. He threw his head back, tendons in his neck corded nearly to breaking. Sam felt his ass fill with something wet and warm.

            Dean fucked up into him with a few more lazy thrusts before collapsing back onto the bed. Sam pulled his hands away from Dean’s throat and gingerly rose off of his dick. The slick head popped free with a groan from both of them. He lied down beside his brother.

            Dean gathered him into his arms, hugging him close. Sam’s face pillowed on his chest, Dean tucked his chin atop Sam’s head. His fingers stroked down Sam’s spine.

            They were quiet always, after. Sam listened to Dean’s ragged breath slowly even out. He felt a warm trickle of Dean’s cum run down his thigh. He nuzzled his nose along Dean’s collarbone, feathered kisses along his neck, along the indents left there.

            Dean reached over to the nightstand, pulled open a drawer, and pulled out a bobby pin. He held Sam’s hands and picked the locks, tossing the cuffs to the foot of the bed. He rubbed his thumb over the raw skin, lifted Sam’s wrists to his lips, kissed the tender flesh.

            Sam let himself be comforted and soothed. His eyes drifted shut and he wondered, as he always did, what Dean was thinking. Sleep nipped at the edges of his consciousness, but Dean jostled his shoulder just as he began to drift off.

            “Wakey, wakey. We need to pack on up out of here. Sorry bout the party—we’ll celebrate later.” Dean sat up, ruffling Sam’s hair. “But if there’s one thing pigs hate, it’s the one that got away. Chances are they’ll be looking hard for us if they aren’t already.” Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched.

            Sam watched him, watched the corded muscles of his back move and flex. He thought of all the moments of his life that had led him here, the tragedies and circumstances, all conspiring to put him in this rat hole motel, sprawled out on a bed staring up at the one thing he loved most in the whole world. He thought of the road ahead, the acres of asphalt to traverse. He thought of being pursued, being chased, always on the lamb. He thought of the little girl whose feet didn’t touch the ground, of the secret he’d kept, the secret he knew he’d have to eventually tell.

            “Won’t you get tired of running?”

            Dean twisted around to look back at Sam. He cupped his face, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. He leaned down and kissed him, and it was as if, for a few seconds, the universe stopped spinning to allow Sam the chance to savor this moment. Dean pressed his forehead to Sam’s.

            “Not if it’s towards you.”


End file.
